I Was Blogging Before Blogging Was Invented.
I can’t explain my love for writing and the written word, but I know I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. I used to get in trouble when I was little for a few things: stashing half eaten buttered tortillas in the couch (sorry mom, I see the problem with this now), cutting up the wood drawers with knives (I wasn’t being destructive, I was being a woodcarver!), staying out with friends past the time I was supposed to come home (a habit that didn’t resolve itself until I went to college and didn’t have a curfew ((I love being a grown up!)). But worst of all was being told to stop reading/writing because it was way past my bedtime. If I had a good book or a lot to say, it was so hard to put the book or the pencil down. Now I don’t have a bedtime (I really do love being a grownup!) but I still stay up way too late with a great read in front of me. If I’m bored, I write. Sad? Write. Angry? Write! Lonely? Write! It only makes sense that I have a blog.
Before blogging, I had journals. I started writing in them when I was 6 or so, and continued up until blogging took over. I have stacks and stacks of journals. Hello Kitty journals, rainbow unicorn journals, fancy leather journals, and plain old paper notebook journals. I don’t really ever go back and read them, because when I do I cringe at the hyper-emotive and overdramatic nature of them. The journals prove that I am, in fact, a ridiculous human being.
Golfer and Naturalist are helping me pack and organize boxes, and Golfer happened to find the one holding all my journals. He took some pages that had fallen out of a bigger “My Melody” journal and started reading out loud:
“My sister is 9 years old now, I am 7 years old. I love my sister and she loves me. My mother’s name is Donna and my father’s name is Robert. I love them all and they love me.” (spelling and punctuation added because I hadn’t really learned about them yet when I wrote this.)
He was laughing and then added, “Wait, it says you wrote this in 1979. Woah. 1979!!!!!!”
Yes children, your mother is as ridiculous as she is ancient.
He turned the page and went on:
“In January the first my sister is going to be 10 years old. I’m going to be 8 in November 12, 1980. I am Tiffani who wrote this. I am putting Deborah in my notebook. LOVE YOU! With love! Love Tiffani”
“Mom, that’s a lot of love.” he said.
I am quite a ridiculously enthusiastic ancient dinosaur of a woman!
At this point I tried to grab it from him but, being 8 feet taller than me now he lifted it up over his head and continued reading:
“It’s Christmas now. Deborah is sleeping. Donna is sleeping. My dad is sleeping. I am waiting for someone to wake up. It’s May now and I’m taking a bath at 6 pm. We go to bed at 7:00. Or 7:30. Or 8. or 8:30. On special occasions we go to bed at 9:00. Or 10:00.”
By the end of it he was crying from laughing so hard. Even now, a few days later, he asks when something is going to happen and then says, “We can do it at 5. Or 5:30. Or 6. Or 6:30. Or maybe even 7. Or 7:30…” Or he’ll announce, “I am hungry. Sassy is hungry. Naturalist is hungry. We are all hungry!” He only stops if I chase him around threatening to bear hug him until he knocks it off.
I am a ridiculous ancient person enthusiastic about every minute details, what can I say?!
He continued reading:
“Christmas is almost over. I am in my bed writing this. Bye.”
“Really fascinating, Mom. Very gripping work you have here!” he quipped.
Everyone’s a critic!
“Time has past quickly. I am playing. My dad is watching TV. It’s March 8th. Tiffany, my friend, is playing with Deborah. It Tuesday.”
Then the pages ran out.
“Mom, that is probably one of the cutest things I’ve ever read” he said, still tearing up from laughing after making fun of me.
I’ll tell you something, when your often grumpy, continually eating, never impressed, slightly underenthused 14 year old son tells you that something you’ve done is one of the cutest things ever, you melt into a puddle on the floor of the garage while glitters and fairies spill from your gooeyness.
Just like it’s hard for me to imagine how big they’re getting, it’s hard for them to imagine that I was ever little.
Thanks to my penchant for writing every little thought down in a journal, now they now that not only was I little, I was still just as ridiculously tediously enthusiastically neurotic as I am now that I’m an old, old, old woman.